


fragments of memory

by wolf_zer0



Series: first meetings [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Antarctic Empire, But not really because its not actually in Minecraft, Families of Choice, Found Family, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Kinda?, No Beta We Die Like Wilbur in Skyblockle, Piglin Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Temporary Character Death, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28377393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolf_zer0/pseuds/wolf_zer0
Summary: He met the first by accident.He met the second on purpose.He met the third by chance.He remembers.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson, Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: first meetings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2078364
Comments: 11
Kudos: 206





	fragments of memory

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone in this is based on characters, not actual content creators. Should any of the creators mentioned in this express any discomfort in this kind of thing, I will remove this and any other works of this nature immediately. All relationships are platonic. Any and all grammar/editing mistakes are my own and I apologize!

He has lived a long, long life.Years, decades, millennia have passed him by, and he remembers it all.He remembers the moment of his creation, formless finding form in the hands of the gods.He remembers the moment of naming, when he became himself.A word whispered into the wind, tucked under the breastbone and kept safe. 

He remembers being set upon the world.He remembers the last words from his makers. _Watch._ And he did. 

He watched as civilizations rose and fell.He watched as men clambered for fame and fortune, only to be dashed upon the rocks of failure.He watched as structures pierced the skies and crumbled to nothing.For a while, that was enough.Until it wasn’t.

Soon merely watching felt hollow.He remembered a cold, empty void before the moment of creation.The feeling of not knowing.Of being unknown.He did not wish to return.So he created.

He built cities high above the earth, covered in delicate spires and vast archways.He built towers in the desert, with layers upon layers of carved stone and careful handiwork.He raised monuments from beneath the ocean, crusted and cracked and perfectly imperfect.He placed mark after mark on the world to remind it that he was _here_.He was _remembered_.And the world took notice.

Stories floated and wove through towns of the man who built empty cities and left.Of the man who could level mountains and empty oceans with ease.Of the man who was so much more than a man.And they gave him a name.It was not the name his creators had given him so many ages prior, the one still carefully hidden beneath his skin, but he embraced it all the same. _Philza_.The man who would not die.The man who remembered.

He remembers the chill of frozen wind as he settled atop the mountain, ice and snow stretching even beyond his sight.He had not set foot so far south, so far from the rest of civilization.He remembers how he saw a place to mold, a place to make, and started to work. 

He does not know when the first pilgrims arrived, breaking camp at the base of his newly chosen home.He does not know the reasons why they came, ragged clothing on their backs and faces turned towards him in hope.He did not hear the whispers of war, of destruction and death that marches across the earth without obstacle.But he remembers when, for the first time in his long, long existence, he turned away from his building and towards the people.His people.

More came flooding in, drawn by tales of power, of protection, of a kind face and kinder hands.He took a form that will not frighten, hiding his might behind a smile.He helped them find footing in the harsh landscape.He taught them to bend the ground to their will, to make a home in a place where none had tried before.And they thanked him with a mighty palace atop the mountain, and a golden crown fitted with diamonds carved from the stone beneath their feet. 

Never had he desired to become a king or an emperor, but he accepted the title with grace.His people had placed their hopes in him, and he would not fail them.Never had he desired a family, but it found him regardless.

He found the first by chance.The conquests from the mainland drove countless refugees to his land, and he welcomed them with open arms.As the bloodshed travelled farther and farther south, he knew he would not be able to hold off the onslaught forever.The conquerorswere far too hungry and far too drunk with power to ignore such a prize as his city.So he gathered those he could, those willing to fight for their newfound home, and prepared for war. 

He remembers all too well.He had not meant to fly so far north, but his advisors had spoken of a raiding party near their borders.He had merely wanted to check on the border villages and provide aid if possible.The acrid scent of smoke told him he was too late.

Landing softly on the snow-crusted grass, he watched the flames lick lazily at the remains of homes.Heart heavy, he stepped carefully through the debris, mindful of the tips of his feathers trailing in the bloodstained snow.As he passed the scattered bodies of the villagers, he sent prayers of mourning to his creators asking for their safe passage into the beyond.When he returned to the mountain, he promised, he would come back to properly lay them to rest. 

A muffled cry of pain caught his attention.Far on the edge of the village, a single building remained.It was small, much smaller than what he could see left of the burned structures, and leaned haphazardly as if built by unsure hands.He approached silently, careful not to alert whatever it was that had cried out.As he grew closer, he saw the shadow of something move through one of the various holes in the building.From what he could see, the figure was small, almost a child. 

When he stood before the doorway, he heard the figure inside take a short, shaky breath.He called out to whoever it was, promising them he did not mean to hurt them.If they let him inside, he said, he would help.A heartbeat passed.Two.The rickety door opened. 

A quaking child sat on the dirt floor, staring up at him with wet eyes.His clothing was threadbare, torn and dirty, and blood was dripping from a gash across his forehead.Tangled pink fur covered his arms and legs, and a pair of hoofed feet scrabbled across the floor as he put as much distance between them as he could.Phil could see the broken shaft of an arrow protruding into his shoulder, and his heart broke for the poor thing.

After a long, painful process of coaxing the child out of the shack and into his arms, Phil tucked the child’s face into his neck and took off towards the palace.Towards home.

The child did not warm to him easily, but he had not expected him to.He remembers long nights filled with heart wrenching screams.He remembers flinches after too quick movements.He remembers the glimmer of fear in deep red eyes. 

But he also remembers waking to an unexpected lump in his far too large bed.He also remembers the hand, shaking and tentative, grasping his own for the first time.He also remembers the raspy voice telling him his name for the first time.He remembers seeing Technoblade, his son, smile and thinking _this is right_.

He found the second on purpose, a year later.Much like the first, it started with a report.Though, it was more a rumor than a true report.Some of the storekeepers within the city had been noticing their stock going missing more frequently.It was not uncommon.There were a fair number of orphaned children running amok within the capitol.He had tried to help them, offering housing and food and support, but some would not accept the help.Too many had been irrevocably scarred to trust so easily.He understood.

He remembers when the rumors changed.There was talk of blank spaces in memories, a vague glimpse of a face that never grew clear, a melody that tickled on the edges of familiarity.The storekeepers were growing frantic.And he knew all too well that frenzy makes monsters of men. 

He descended from the palace in disguise, promising his son to return quickly.From what little information he had gathered, the strange thief never struck the same place twice.He found a small grocers cart near the edges of the main marketplace and sat at a bare patch of cobblestone to keep watch.He missed the days when he could walk amongst the people without being noticed, and relished the chance to once again do what his creators had tasked.Watch.

He watched the small intricacies of life around him.The baker placed fresh goods on the counter, steam curling patterns into the frigid air.An artificer meddled with the heating system of an inn, muttering to herself the whole while.A pair of children chattered at a smiling young man, pointing to the impressive statute of the Emperor placed at the center of the square with wide eyes.His mouth twitched upwards, warmed at the sight of his people thriving.

The unholy screech of metal on metal broke the peaceful afternoon.He blinked and watched a gangly child sprint across the square with a bundle in his arms, town guards chasing after him.He remembers the smirk on the child’s face as he led them into a nearby dead end alley and barely suppressed a grin.He stood slowly, stretching his hands far above his head, and walks in the same direction. 

As he neared the entrance to alley, he hears singing and watches the guards stumble past, eyes glazed and feet unsteady.He chances a glimpse around the corner and watches the thief smile proudly and turn towards the wall to investigate his prize.From where he stands, Phil can make out a dirty yellow sweater covered in grime, matted brown hair, and shoeless feet.He feels the same pull, the feeling that drew him to a tiny, war torn shack in the middle of a massacre, that guides him down the alley. 

He made sure to step on a thin piece of ice as he walked.The thief startled at the loud crack, whirling around and meeting Phil’s eyes.Phil knew, watching his face pale as he recognized who was standing before him, that he wasn’t going back home alone. 

While the thief, Wilbur, was quick to agree to follow him back to the palace, he was far more unwilling to trust.He had a silver tongue and a quick wit, and would not hesitate to hurl insult after insult at whoever found themselves in the crossfire.Phil had seen the anger seeping through Wilbur’s cracked mask, the desire to hurt hiding a need to not be hurt first, and would not give in.He let the vicious barbs wash over him, though some found their mark and sunk in deep. 

He remembers the first, and second, and fifteenth times he caught Wilbur with valuables stuffed into his pack.He remembers the sneer on his face as he snarled _what the fuck kind of name is Technoblade_ and refused to be seen in the same room as him.He remembers a pair of brown eye watching him warily as he passed, clutching hands to his chest and pressing into the wall. 

But he also remembers the first time Wilbur unpacked, his worldly possessions settling into drawers and cabinets.He also remembers the first time Wilbur apologized to Techno, calling him his brother and his best friend through tears.He also remembers the first time he heard singing, not to influence or protect, but simply to enjoy the sound of being.He remembers hearing Wilbur call him dad and knowing _this is good_. 

He found the third by accident.The winter is far colder than most.The fireplaces within the palace have burned far earlier and far longer than usual.He left his children curled up in their beds, and descended into the city. 

There were far fewer people on the streets, and those who were rarely stay out for long.He did not mind the emptiness of the streets, just as he did not mind the chill that surrounded him or the wind that threatened to tear the hat from his head.The snow and ice crunched under his feet as he passed lit window after lit window, each offering a glance at the people contained within.As his creators had tasked him so many millennia before, he watched. 

He does not know what drew him to look into a nearby deserted, unlit street.There was no noise, nothing out of place.And yet, his eyes were inexplicably drawn to a small cloth bundle placed just under an outcropping of stone.Cloth that moved slightly, in a way that he knew the wind could not have. 

He hurried towards it, heartbeat loud in his ears.Kneeling down, he reached out a hand and carefully drew back the cloth. 

Though he had lived thousands of years, seen thousands of things and witnessed thousands of horrors, he had never felt the pure, all-consuming horror that flooded him as he stared into the threadbare cloth cocoon. 

A small, pale face.Eyes shut.Frail blond wisps of hair.A child.A _baby_.Abandoned.Alone.There were no footprints in the fallen snow, no sign of a family anywhere.Just a tiny body, silent and still in the frigid evening.His heart stopped.Was the poor thing even _alive_?

A tiny puff of breath clouded around the child’s mouth.He didn’t think, snatching the baby from the snow and clutching him close to his chest.He shuddered when the cold fabric touched his hands.How he was still breathing, Phil didn’t know.Nor did he care.All that mattered was keeping the tiny, weak heartbeat beneath his hands going. 

He launched himself into the air with a powerful beat of his wings towards the palace.Landing as gently as he could at the gates, he brushed off the concerned shouts of guards and servants.The child was still alive, and he planned to keep him that way.In his hurry, he failed to notice the doors to his sons’ rooms peek open, two sets of curious eyes watching. 

Bursting through the large oak doors into his private living quarters, he called for doctors, wet-nurses, anyone who could possibly help.He gathered furs and blankets from his own bed and bundled the child in them.He held him close, impossibly close, as if he could will the baby back to heath.Not once did the child open his eyes or make a sound.

Hour upon hour he waited as doctor after doctor attempted to rouse the child.Each time they looked at him with sad eyes, he felt his heart shatter a bit more.When the High Master of the Academy arrived in a swirl of purple robes and whispering magic and gave him a soft, sad shake of his head and a careful pat to his shoulder, his heart fracture into pieces. 

He collapsed in a chair beside the fireplace, gazing at the baby in his arms.The small breaths grew smaller.The weak heartbeat grew weaker.He sat and watched as the baby ( _his son, his heart told him)_ faded. 

The door to his room creaked open.His head shot up, ready to unleash the full force of his anger on the intruder.The fire of his rage died when he saw Wilbur peeking out from behind, Techno close behind.He smiled at them as they carefully made their way to him.

He struggled to hold back the flood of emotion as Wilbur told him they wanted to meet their new brother.He noticed the small stuffed animal held tightly in Techno’s hands.A soft brown cow, one of the many gifts he’d offered his first when they became a fragile family.A peace offering, now gifted to the newest member.

He barely had the heart to tell them the truth, but he knew he must.They knew the sting of death all too well.But he wished he could have spared them this, as he watched Wilbur’s face crumble and tears gather in his eyes.He wished he could have spared them this, as he watched Techno’s eyes widen with shock and the cow slip from loose fingers. 

He remembers the moment the breath stopped, the heartbeat stills.He remembers the agony of the silence that follows.He remembers Wilbur’s face buried in his shoulder, small frame shaking with heaving sobs.He remembers _grief_. 

He tried to comfort Wilbur.He pulled him close with one arm, pressing him tight against his chest.Distracted, he did not notice the change.But Techno did.His eyes never left the tiny form in his father’s arms.His ears, far more sensitive than either of his family members truly knew, heard the rhythm start again. 

The rhythm of a heart.

He tried to catch his father’s gaze, but the daze of misery was too thick to penetrate.Huffing, he reached out, grasped the skin of Phil’s upper arm, and twisted. 

The sharp sting of pain caused Phil to jump, startling both he and Wilbur back into the present.Techno pointed down.Phil looked.

Into hazy blue eyes. 

_(Later, he will ask his children what they should call their newest brother.Both offer suggestions, but when Wilbur says Tommy, he feels the rightness of it.It sticks.)_

_(Later, the child will grow into a boy into a teenager into a man, full of crackling energy and with a voice that would topple nations.The child will bring light and laughter to the dark edges of the palace.The child will fill the empty halls with noise and movement and life.)_

_(Later, when visitors and staff complain of the child, of the din and the commotion that follows in his wake, the emperor will remember the silence and stillness of a winter night so long ago.He will remember the emptiness of despair followed by the fullness of joy, and he will smile.)_

For now, he had his children, all three products of chance and fate and circumstance.For now, he curled around them on his large bed, wings outstretched and blanketing them in darkness.For now, he held them close and knew _this is home_. 

_On that cold, dark, winter night, far above the palace, unseen by mortal eyes, a woman made of starlight and space watched as a family become whole.The goddess of constellations and connections carefully wove their strands of fate together.Though she knew the ties will be tested, stretched to near breaking, she knew deep in her core there is no force strong enough to rend them asunder.She watched as the four slept, and smiled.Her work finished, Clara turned and faded into the night sky._

**Author's Note:**

> Hello anyone reading this! Thank you for taking the time to read my very first fic ever publish publicly. I have a lot more of this au planned, and will be doing worldbuilding and related lore dumps on my tumblr. Find me at wolf-zer0 over there if you want to see more!
> 
> I think dream team first meeting should be up next, but who knows when I'll have the motivation to actually finish.
> 
> Until then, stay safe and I'll see you around!  
> \- Zero


End file.
